


help me forget (your hands at my wrists)

by oliverwvvd



Series: if there's a reason [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Consensual, First Time, First Time Topping, M/M, Mild BDSM Vibes, Mild Restraint Play, Morning Sex, Mutual Need, Voice Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-10
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-12-26 01:22:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12048387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oliverwvvd/pseuds/oliverwvvd
Summary: It’s the morning after a first kiss, after things that Marcus can’t unsee, nightmares that play behind his eyelids, after a night of unspoken hell and beginnings that feel more like a collapse into the inevitable. Oliver’s there, a place to drown in, and he gives him a way to forget. [NSFW outtake from if there's a reason].





	help me forget (your hands at my wrists)

**Author's Note:**

> This is intended as a follow-up / in-between chapter for the series Erin inspired with a couple of song prompts, if there’s a reason. I got side-tracked while I was writing part ii. Oops? Many, many thanks to Hex for her patience and support in betaing this for me, I was a little uncertain about posting it. It isn’t necessary to read part i of the series in order to understand this, but it does give a little extra context to what led up to it.
> 
> This fic features the following, in no particular order: early morning sex, minor restraint play and Oliver topping (for a specific reason, so there’s a mild dominance/submission vibe here too). If that’s not your thing, this may not be your preferred read, and that’s perfectly okay. However, I will hasten to add that everything involved in this fic is 100% consensual.

When Oliver wakes up the next morning, it almost feels as though everything should be different, that the world should have visibly shifted on its axis. But when there’s a soft noise and a face buried into his shoulder, hands wandering up his ribcage in protest at his slight movements to pull him closer, he realises that it isn’t that everything is different. It’s that everything is the same, but they’ve let themselves open up to it, because they both chose to be exactly where they are right now. “Marcus?” he asks softly, not sure if the other is up for dealing with anything yet after the previous evening. He doesn’t expect the sensation of lips brushing the nape of his neck, or the shiver that races the length of his spine in response that he’s past the point of hiding, the way the other’s voice vibrates against his skin. “Morning.” **  
**

This is a much less awkward awakening than the last time that they ended up in the same bed, and when Oliver turns to face him, he takes inventory of the other’s features. Truth be told, it’s not the best moment: the morning outside is grey and the barely there light makes the dark circles under Marcus’ eyes look even worse. He’s still pale and the effects of the previous night clearly aren’t gone yet, because there’s a slightly wild look to him, like a skittish horse about to bolt. The five o’clock shadow along his jaw has deepened and there’s hair stuck to his forehead, and Oliver’s heart clenches unexpectedly in his chest. “Hey,” he says softly, knowing that the word is meaningless, that the way he’s looking at Marcus probably says far more. “How long have you been awake?”

“A while.” The words, short as they are, let him know that neither of them slept well, one caught in worry, the other wrestling with all the demons in his head. “Oliver, last night…”

Oliver freezes, wondering if the other is going to change his mind. Instead, Marcus ploughs ahead, relentless, just like he remembers from before the war. “Did you mean it?”

_Kissing you back?_  That’s when he realises, belatedly, that Marcus is wondering the same thing that he is, wants to know for certain. “Yes, I meant it,” he says without a second’s hesitation. “I meant all of it. If you don’t know it, you haven’t been paying close enough attention, Flint.” And to cement the words, he leans in and kisses him, slow and lazy like the promise of a Sunday morning after Quidditch training. In about ten seconds flat, though, it turns into something else, because when Marcus returns it, reaches up and knots fingers into his hair, he forgets himself altogether. He forgets about  _war_  and the sheer hell of what’s happening to them and others, every single day, because there’s nothing but this, this thing between them that’s been a longer time coming than either of them are willing to admit out loud. When Marcus’ lips part, he takes the invitation eagerly, takes his time exploring the other’s mouth, licking his way into it, teasing his lower lip until he feels the dark haired Chaser groan. Distantly, he feels hips press into his and suddenly they’re veering off the edge of safety and careening right into something that’s too dangerous for words. He stops there, buries his face against Marcus’ throat, because  _shit_ , it’s so much. It’s the question into his ear that follows which unravels him completely, though.

“Why did you stop?”

It takes him a minute to form the words. “Because I’m not going to take advantage of you after the way you were last night.” The reply is slightly breathless, a slight show of the control that it took to pause. What he doesn’t expect is what he gets: laughter, quiet, it’s true, but laughter nonetheless. Startled, he pulls back, only to have Marcus reach for him, bring him closer again. “Wood, seriously? I want to forget about last night. I don’t want to remember it any more than I already do. It’s not taking advantage, so don’t be stupid and noble about it, shut up and kiss me.” The certainty behind the words and the look on Marcus’ face tell him quite clearly  _don’t you dare_  when it comes to any second thoughts about this, but the grip of his hands is loose, giving Oliver an out anyway. He’s not sure when reading him at this dual level became so natural, but he’ll think about that later.

Quite deliberately, he takes a breath, hovering over Marcus’ lips, reaches down and unfastens first one hand and then the other from his waist. The look of sheer disbelief and slight devastation burns him, because it’s obvious that Marcus really thinks he’s going to go, and that just won’t do. Leaning in, he kisses him again, softly for reassurance, and reaches for his wand, set on the bedside table. The sound of the locks on the bedroom door clicking firmly into place and the sudden absence of morning noise like the birds outside makes it all too clear what Oliver is about. He’s nothing if not thorough, and he sets the wand back where it was when he’s done.

“Don’t want anyone else hearing you but me,” he says, and he watches Marcus’ eyes widen as he discerns the full implication of the words, but it’s nothing to his expression when seconds later Oliver’s rolled them and pinned his wrists above his head, a demonstration of reflexive strength gained from Quidditch and constant combat. Marcus is broader in the shoulders, but Oliver’s strong enough to challenge him. He slides a thigh between the other’s, but still doesn’t kiss him, holds himself just slightly out of reach and relishes the low-pitched  _whine_  that it elicits from the back of his throat, the way Marcus doesn’t try to hold back or be quiet because he knows he doesn’t need to. Beneath his fingers, he feels the other’s pulse start to speed and hears his breathing quicken, and it’s not from fear. He doesn’t know when or how he figured out that this was something that Marcus would like, but watching his eyes darken tells him that it was exactly the right button to push, because there’s no room for the other to think about anything else, not now. “You want to forget?” Oliver asks, his voice low, remembering Marcus’ words from the previous night.  _I’m so tired of shadows._  He doesn’t wait for an answer, leans in and slides his mouth in a stripe up his throat until he reaches the hollow of it, bites there quick and soft, not enough to leave a mark, just enough to make the other’s body  _jolt_ , hips roll.

“Oliver…” His name’s sighed out like a prayer, a benediction, and he wants to hear it, again and again, just like that, as though he can chase back whatever darkness invades Marcus’ head.

“Tell me,” he commands, lifting his head and locking eyes on Marcus’, and it’s not about power-play, not really. It’s all about making it so the only thing that the other can focus on isn’t whatever horrors have been playing behind his eyes since last night. He tightens his grip just slightly around Marcus’ wrists; it makes the other’s breathing catch, makes him swallow hard and try to reassemble himself enough to speak.

“Make me forget.” And then Marcus only compounds it by leaning up towards him, the whisper that follows. “ _Please_.” That’s when everything crumbles, because Oliver lets go and they crash into each other, kissing so fiercely that it’s a wonder they survive the force of the impact. There are no mundane thoughts about things like  _breathing_ , like taking a minute, because they’re not going to, and Marcus’ hands are already under his t-shirt, sliding over his skin. When Oliver increases the pressure of his thigh against where he can feel Marcus, he doesn’t expect the other to cry out so sharply, but that’s _exactly_  what he does and  _fuck, **fuck**_ , that’s too much, the blazing impatience that the other follows it with. “If our clothes keep getting in the way, Oliver, they’re not going to be long for this world. Understand me?”

Oliver puts a finger over Marcus’ lips, and the other stills, pupils dilating. “Shh. Trust me.” He removes it after a moment, lets him wonder for a second what exactly is going to happen next.

Of course, that’s the moment Oliver shifts position just slightly, slips fingers inside the edge of Marcus’ dark grey boxers and wraps them around him, watches his eyes close, head falling back against the pillows. He feels fingers tighten against his back and then curve around his ass. The broken moan that follows tells him that what he’s already been finding out: that Marcus is incredibly vocal, that there’s a measure of what feels good by the sounds he makes. While he strokes him, finds the pace that he likes, he murmurs a promise against skin. “I’m not going to fuck you this time, but I _am_  going to take you apart until you’re so strung out that you can’t form coherent sentences.”

“ _Merlin_ , Oliver…” The words are hissed from between Marcus’ teeth, and his entire body is trembling, and he’s hard under Oliver’s touch, fingers digging into where he’s holding on, and he takes mental note of how well this works.

“You like this, don’t you?” The words are breathed hotly, directly into Marcus’ ear, and he feels him shudder. “You like the idea that I’ll only speak this way for you…” He dips his head and delivers another soft bite, this one deposited against bare shoulder. “You’re right.  _This_ …” he curls his fingers and he hears Marcus barely bite back a curse, “…is only for you.” He slides his hand free then, damp with the traces of how close the other is to the edge, raises it to his mouth and, gaze fixed on Marcus, makes a show of licking it, slow and dirty. There’s a definite expletive on the other’s lips and his eyes fall closed, as though he can’t take the full visual.

“Don’t do that or I’m going to come right this second.”

“No, you’re not.” Marcus opens his eyes half-lidded, almost a glare, but Oliver feels him still under the command just the same, can’t help but smile. The kiss that he leans in for then is something much more tender than anything they’ve exchanged so far, far more similar to the kiss of last night. They both melt into it and it’s too easy to get lost like this. He feels hands tug on his t-shirt, feels lips smile against his in return.

“I want to see you.” A few words, and a reminder too that they’re incapable of making this just about sex; both of them are too intense for it to be something that simple, too many months of lingering glances and developing understanding for that.

The request is an easy one to grant, so he lets Marcus strip it away, follows with the same gesture but then reaches down and tugs boxers down over hips that lift to help him remove them. Shifting, he presses a thumb to Marcus’ lower lip and steals another kiss, this one short and enough to leave him gasping. Oliver gives him only a few seconds to recover. “I was going to see if you could handle coming untouched, but I don’t think that’s a game I want to play right now.” He strokes against him again and hums with low approval at the reaction, because Marcus is so responsive to him and it’s incredible to feel the proof of it. He draws it out; every time he feels his hips beginning to snap up, he slows things down again until Marcus’ face is buried into his shoulder and his whole body is shaking with the need for release. It’d be almost cruel if it weren’t for the fact that Oliver is entirely focused on making the experience pleasurable, finding out every nuance of his body, tracing kisses over every inch of skin he can reach without moving. Finally, it’s too much for both of them, dark eyes glazed over when they meet Oliver’s, hands wandering  _everywhere_  until he’s just as desperate as Marcus is, bending his head to capture his mouth again. “Let me hear you,” he whispers, mouths it against kiss-bitten lips. “Let go for me.”

The words signify so much more than the surrender of Marcus’ body that they imply; the sheer intimacy of those two sentences is like a spell that binds them far too completely, and it’s  _ **Oliver**_  on Marcus’ lips when he comes, leaves fingerprints all over his skin as he tries uselessly to hang onto the edge even after he falls from it. It’s glorious, the way his head is haloed by the dark, just-fucked waves of his hair, the way his lips are reddened around the edges, the way he bares his throat when his back arches, completely lost in pleasure. Oliver’s not even fully conscious of the way that they’ve slowly wrapped around each other, of the words that are slipping from his lips unbidden as Marcus unravels at the seams, for  _him_. “You’re so good for me, so good…” He’s never said these things before, not to anyone, but they feel right for this moment, for the man he’s tangled up in, for what he intended. To bury the horror beyond reach, to take him apart, to give him more.

It takes a while for Marcus to return to earth, after that, and under other circumstances, Oliver might have been smug about it. But there’s no room for that here, not when it was like  _that_. When the other’s eyes finally come back into focus, Oliver watches him, knowing that the warmth of it, everything that he  _feels_ , has felt for quite some time, must be near to written across his face. When Marcus reaches up tentatively to touch the corners of his own eyes, Oliver registers the tear tracks there and suddenly his thoughts plummet hard, the pit of his stomach fills with stones.  _Too much, was it too much?_  Rather than second-guess it, he leans in and kisses where Marcus’ fingers rest, feels him relax further still, strokes a palm down the length of his spine.

“You didn’t…” Marcus is the first to speak, voice rough, and what he means is obvious. Oliver buries his face against his hair, murmurs into it. “No, I didn’t, but it wouldn’t have taken much more. This was for you.” He’ll have to sort through the debris later, figure out what exactly he triggered in himself; he’s not always shy, definitely not, but this was a first in a thousand different ways. He feels Marcus’ arms around him tighten, and that sensation of his chest drawing tight is there again, more than he could possibly have prepared for. “Are you all right?” He has to check, has to be sure.

Marcus sighs against him. “If you were anyone else, I’d think you were fishing for compliments. But that’s not it, is it?” There’s a kiss against his jaw, one that makes Oliver close his eyes momentarily. “You were exactly what I needed. You gave me that.”

There’s nothing that Oliver can say to those words, nothing that can possibly meet them measure for measure. Instead, when he feels Marcus shift, he moves, not expecting the other to reach for his chin and hold him there for a kiss. When they part, he feels Marcus chuckle, tinged with that slight after-sex huskiness. “Toppy bastard, aren’t you, Wood?” He feels his cheeks flare red, and shuts his eyes, but he can feel the incredulous gaze without seeing it. “You’re blushing, Oliver. Seriously?” But even to that question, there’s a softness that wasn’t there before; a deepening to everything that was already between them, everything that they haven’t yet named.

Oliver doesn’t answer at first, but eventually, he opens his eyes and looks down at Marcus. “Not always,” he says, and the corners of his lips quirk up when Marcus lifts an eyebrow at him, interest plain.

“Now that, I’m looking forward to finding out in more detail. Preferably soon.”

It’s the confidence in the words that makes Oliver grin more easily, lean back into the touch of Marcus’ fingertips, because that’s familiar, like everything about the other has become (or perhaps always was). He knows that these are stolen hours at best, that soon, they’ll have to let reality back in, but for now, this is something that they can have. “I’ll hold you to that.”

“Think we’ve already established that I enjoy you holding me to things.” The arch response makes Oliver laugh, low in his chest, as though the warmth there has manifested into sound. He curls deeper into the tangle of the sheets, and the smile on his lips caused by the way that Marcus pushes himself closer isn’t going to fade any time soon. “Goes both ways.” The sated mumble that he receives back isn’t really coherent, but Oliver doesn’t mind it; his fingers card through Marcus’ hair without even thinking about it, the motion lulling him enough that for a time, both of them can forget what lies behind them, and what might happen next.


End file.
